Life Without Harley

October 2009 was a difficult month for me. First, I had a stroke of which I have previously written, and then a week later, to the day, I had to put my beloved boxer, Harley, to sleep.

I was introduced to my boxer boy when he was a four day old pup. At six weeks he came home to live with me and be my true love, canine love. I was re-modeling my house at the time and as I sat on the floor painting baseboards, he slept on my lap, wearing stripes of paint up and down his soft puppy body like a zebra. He rode in the car with me wherever I went, his nose print and boxer slobber coating the windows.  He was my constant companion, the only constant in my ever-shifting world.

Harley was more kangaroo than dog, jumping straight up 6 ft into the air in his exuberance to go for a W-A-L-K. When off leash he bounded like a gazelle, grace and beauty in every movement. He loved chasing lizards and was drawn to tall grasses where he pounced with his front paws, creating mayhem among the lizard population, thus enabling him to chase to his heart’s content.

He loved to be on the loose and running more than anything and so to this end he spent most of his waking hours trying to escape the confines of the house. Like an inmate, he moved from door to door, bumping each one with his nose to see if he could open it. It was many years before he stopped doing this but not before he got hit by a car, twice. During another escape episode, in his effort to avoid recapture he snagged a chicken bone he found in a neighbor’s yard and as I tried to coax him back to me, he inhaled, aspirating the bone down into his windpipe. This resulted in a $600 vet bill. The kids and I spent considerable time chasing him down, I in the car and they on foot.

I bought an RV in 2000 and took the kids on a trip across the country. Of course, Harley came with us. Every time we opened the door, we were on red alert to prevent his escape. We didn’t always succeed and there were times I was so frustrated with him I was ready to drive away and abandon him in that Oklahoma sunflower field or in that church parking lot. But, I didn’t, couldn’t…he was part of me and our family.

With all his escape antics, Harley had terrible separation anxiety. He cried, howled, whined and barked himself hoarse when left alone for any length of time. With his separation anxiety came a touchy tummy causing an almost daily episode of vomiting. Through the years I experimented with all kinds of food, but really, he was just a hot mess. But he was MY hot mess and had embedded himself deeply in my heart.

As most boxers, he viewed himself as a tiny little lapdog. He sat in front of me when I was comfy on the couch, his head on my knee, eyes beseeching me to allow him up. At the tiniest movement of my head, indicating permission, he was up, curling himself into a tight circle, pressing hard against me. The weight of this body was a lovely reassuring presence, a constant in my ever-shifting life.

I’m guessing that all his leaping and jumping may have been his undoing. I’d noticed a few days prior to my stroke that he wouldn’t eat. He seemed to want to eat but just wouldn’t. When I finally caught on and raised his food dish he seemed fine and happily ate those missed meals.

Then the stroke happened.

My family cared for him, took him to the vet, afraid to tell me of his poor condition which deteriorated rapidly while I was in the hospital. He was in excruciating pain, even the slightest movement of his head caused him to cry out. He lay on blankets and passed his urine and feces where he lay when he was able. He was fed soft food with a spoon and given water from a turkey baster.

I returned from the hospital after almost a week. Barely able to make the smallest decision, I was faced with the most difficult : to euthanize my darling boxer boy. Actually divine grace was freely bestowed upon me during this time. Since I was recovering from a major brain injury, I didn’t FULLY experience this horrendous loss as I might have.

The afternoon before his death, I wanted him moved outside to lay in the warmth of the sun where he loved life the best.  My family carried him on his blankets, litter-style, into the late October sunlight. We lay in the sun together, my best buddy and I. Me, with my brain a mess, and him, with his old body failing him. I lay down beside him on the ground, sobbing into the soft brown hair of his neck, unabashedly, uncontrollably, inconsolably.

The next day, he was gone.